Speak to Me in the Middle of the Night
by Lady Chal
Summary: So who was the father of Singer's baby? Inquiring minds and one eccentric NCIS investigator want to know.
1. Part One: A Friend

**Speak to Me, in the Middle of the Night**

**By Lady Chal**

**Rating:** PG

**Disclaimer:** They don't belong to me, and I'm not making any money off of them, so Donald Bellisario and CBS please don't sue. –You won't make any money off of me, either.

**Category:** JAG/NCIS crossover

**Spoilers:** Major Spoilers for Ice Queen / Meltdown

**Summary:** So who was the father of Singer's baby? Inquiring minds –and one slightly eccentric member of the NCIS team—want to know. --Mostly Mallard, with cameos by the JAG regulars, Gibbs, and our favorite spy.

**Author's Note:** This isn't my first JAG fic, but the first one that I've actually gotten around to posting. –It's also one that I didn't expect to write, but the whole "Ice Queen" episode really struck a chord with me, and I couldn't stop thinking about it. I especially liked the way they used the camera angles from the corpse's perspective to evoke the sense of Singer's presence still being there somehow, and that's what led me into this story. --If you're not into Singer or didn't care a fig for the new NCIS characters, this one may not be for you. Heck, _I_ didn't even like Singer! –But there was something about that storyline that really got to me. Even though she was the character we all loved to hate, I still had to feel a little sorry for her in the end.

And finally, advance apologies for any minor details I might be a shade off on (i.e. rank, timelines, etc.) I don't tape all the episodes and there are just some things that slip under my radar. I'm sure you'll all let me know about them when you see them and I will be quick to make corrections. One minor point of debate that I will maintain for the purposes of the story, however, is the advancement of Singer's pregnancy. I could have sworn that Mallard stated at one point during the show that she was much _farther_ along than anyone thought –almost ready to deliver, in fact. This, of course, would serve to rule out Sergei and everyone aboard the Sea Hawk and cast suspicion on Lindsey (whom she had been seeing before she left for the Sea Hawk)….or others…

**Part One: A Friend**

_Arlington__National__Cemetery___

_15:35 EST___

_2 May, 2003___

The sharp crack of the rifles pierced the damp, muggy air. The report rolled slowly across the neat rows of white marble headstones, fading at last to a distant rumble that blended with the voice of the thunderheads on the far horizon. From somewhere in the distance, a Marine Lance Corporal brought a bugle to his lips and winded the long, sweet, melancholy strains of Taps. The notes echoed mournfully down the hillside, floating across the open grave and the chaplain decided that if perhaps some of the small droplets of water that ran down the faces of those stern, uniformed men was not actually rain, then it could not be held against them. He felt the tightening in his own throat each time that solemn call was blown.

 As the final note faded and died, the chaplain found himself studying those gathered about the grave with a small amount of curiosity. The group of mourners huddled beneath the blue canvas of the funeral canopy was uncharacteristically small. –Less than a dozen, if he failed to count himself, the rifle squad and the Navy honor guard that had borne the flag draped casket to its final resting place.

As a result, the slight, distinguished looking man in the drab gray trench-coat and rain spattered spectacles stood out quite noticeably from the small cadre of JAG personnel clad in their dark mixture of Marine Corps and Navy dress blues. The chaplain had found his own eye falling upon the man time and time again throughout the simple military ceremony. Aside from the fact that the man in the trench coat was clearly a civilian, he had kept himself at some distance from the others throughout the brief grave side service. Though there had been plenty of room beneath the canopy, he had stood several feet from it, preferring the thin shelter of his dripping umbrella instead. 

The chaplain stood by silently as the flag was removed from the casket, carefully folded and presented to the two star admiral that was seated in the center of the front row –a position traditionally reserved for family or next of kin, had there been any in attendance. The admiral, a tall, balding man of about fifty or so, accepted the flag from the Navy Lieutenant and nodded his solemn thanks. Recognizing his cue, the chaplain uttered a few more quiet words of blessing and condolence and then joined the mourners that were slowly rising and filing away.

From his vantage point at the edge of the canopy, Dr. Donald Mallard met each of their curious stares with his own cynical gaze as they filtered past him. He pushed away the brief surge of disdain that momentarily overcame him, and settled instead for pity –with a dash of anger. They were here out duty more than friendship. He would have bet his last week's pay check that not a man of them had ever seen past the cool facade she had presented to the world. They had no idea what they had missed.

_Ask not for whom the bell tolls…_ he thought acidly.

_--It tolls for thee…_

 He was not entirely certain that she would have wanted them here. None of them had really known her. None of them had even made an attempt. --Except, perhaps, for that petty officer --a delightful brown haired girl who even now was hesitating beside the casket. None of them had particularly cared for her. That had been miserably apparent throughout the course of the investigation and the trial.

He had not witnessed it firsthand per se, but enough small tidbits had filtered through from Gibbs and Blackadder's interrogations, and people did discuss such things about the water cooler –even the one located just outside the morgue. The deceased had not been well liked by her colleagues. They had described her as cold, conniving and ruthless. She had no friends that anyone was aware of. –No lovers… And yet, Mallard could not help thinking, someone must have loved her …at least a little bit ….at least once. The small scrap of humanity that had been returned to her body and interred with her in the cold Virginia earth was proof of that. As he stood at the edge of the canopy staring at the polished blue steel of the casket, Mallard could not help but think of the title he had bestowed upon the nameless woman in his morgue only a few short weeks ago.

 He had dealt with frozen bodies before, and he fully expected that he would see more of them before he exited this illustrious if somewhat gruesome career. But he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would never confer those words upon another. There was a bitter irony in the fact that his description of her death too easily summed up her life in the eyes of those who had known her, and Dr. Ducky Mallard knew that he would always remember Lt. Lauren Singer as his one --and only-- Ice Queen.

A pleasant faced African American man, bearing the rank of a Commander, paused to speak softly to the young Petty Officer before moving away from the casket. Spying Mallard at the edge of the rapidly dissipating gathering, he studied him with a look of curiosity. The Commander hesitated only a moment, and then with a look of solemn determination, he crossed to the coroner and offered his hand.

"Commander Sturgis Turner," he said, offering Mallard a small sympathetic smile. "Were you a friend of Lt. Singer?"

Mallard considered the question for a moment. He thought of the hours they had spent together. All those long conversations, the quiet musings, the small observations, the little jokes –one sided though they'd been. He had enjoyed his time with her. He had found her to be a truly fascinating woman –and that was before he'd even discovered the leopard tattoo.

"Of a sort," he said at last, studying Turner with careful interest. There was an open friendliness about the man; a sincere concern and solemnity that made Mallard wonder if Turner, like the young Petty Officer might not have harbored the smallest kernel of true regret for the passing of one Lauren Singer. He felt himself softening slightly towards naval officer. 

"I became acquainted with her only recently," he confessed, "but I found her to be a delightful young woman."

There was a flash of surprise in Turner's dark brown eyes as if, Mallard thought, "delightful" was not a description he would have associated with Lauren Singer. To Turner's credit, however, it was quickly followed by a nod and a healthy dose of what appeared to be genuine regret.

"I'm afraid I didn't have the privilege of seeing that side of her," Turner confessed with a small smile. "Lieutenant Singer was not an easy person to get to know."

That was certainly an understatement, Mallard thought. It had taken him nearly a week just to confirm her identity. "She certainly was a challenging individual," he agreed.

Turner's smile broadened. "You can say that again. Lord knows she kept me on my toes on more than one case." He offered Mallard a curious look. "How did happen to meet the Lieutenant?"

Mallard was still trying to frame a tactfully vague answer when a harsh voice interrupted.

"In the morgue."

Mallard glanced up over Turner's shoulder and into the glowering countenance of the man he had last seen sitting in the defendant's chair only a week before. He returned Commander Harmon Rabb's cool gaze with his own unruffled smile.

"Actually, it was in the midst of a lovely grove of trees on the banks of the Potomac," Mallard corrected, hiding the sudden surge of dislike he felt behind a bland but pleasant tone.

Rabb's eyes narrowed upon him. "Do you always attend the funerals of your autopsy cases?" he asked, a hard edge of suspicion entering his voice.

"Only the special ones," Mallard admitted, flicking his gaze towards the casket that was slowly being lowered to the ground. From the moment he had seen her bedraggled but well preserved body cradled in the limbs of that tree and looked into that ghastly, faceless countenance with only the strands of long blonde hair and delicate cheekbones picked clean and white to attest to what must once have been beauty, he had known she was going to be one of "the special ones." He couldn't remember how many cases he had worked over the years. Certainly hundreds –possibly thousands, if one counted the cases of mass fatalities. He had seen so many dead bodies over the years that even he, with his almost perfect memory, could not remember them all. But this was different. Like the Hollywood movie actress in '83, that Peruvian dancer in '94, or that CIA station Chief in Hanoi in '72, Lieutenant Lauren Singer was going to be one of the select few he would not forget.

"Is there a problem here, Commander?" The Admiral had reached them now, the folded flag tucked under his arm. He was flanked by a rather striking female Marine Colonel on one side and an elegant auburn haired civilian woman on the other. Dark eyes shot a stern warning from beneath bushy black brows as he looked from Mallard to Rabb.

"No problem, sir," Rabb said easily. "I was just wondering what business an NCIS Coroner has with a closed case."

Mallard felt the weight of Chegwidden's dark gaze shift from Rabb to him, and somehow managed to maintain his inane smile. "Absolutely none," he said easily. "I just came to pay my respects."

"Why?" Rabb demanded. "You didn't know her."

"Harm," the Lieutenant Colonel cut in, laying her hand upon his arm, "this really isn't the place for this." There was a note of caution in her voice and her brown eyes warned him not to make a scene.

Rabb opened his mouth as if to protest and was immediately cut off by the Admiral's stern admonition.

"Stow it, Rabb," the Admiral barked. "Mac is right. This is neither the time nor the place. Besides, judging from your own experience I would think you would have learned by now that it doesn't pay to tangle with the NCIS." He fixed his three Junior officers with a stern gaze. "I expect Tiner and Lieutenant Roberts will be wondering what's keeping us. They've arranged a luncheon at the Realto Grill."

It was a not so subtle dismissal, but it had the desired effect as Rabb ground out a slightly disgruntled "Yes, sir," and allowed himself to be pulled away by McKenzie and Turner. Chegwidden followed their progress for a few paces until assured that they were out of earshot. Then, he promptly rounded on Mallard.

"No offense, Dr. Mallard, but why exactly are you here?" he demanded, narrowing his gaze upon the coroner. "Last I heard the case was closed and sewn up tight. Commander Lindsey goes to trial next month. Is there a problem that I am unaware of?"

"No, no problem," Mallard assured him. "As I said before, I simply came to pay my respects."

The Admiral, like Rabb, seemed unconvinced. "Not the usual mode of operation for a coroner."

Mallard sighed, knowing he was going to have to find some way to explain it. He realized, in retrospect, that he probably shouldn't have come. If he'd been smart, he'd have waited until later. But then he always had been a bit impetuous when it came to beautiful women.

"No, it's not," he agreed, and offered the man a small bemused smile. "I'm not quite certain that I can explain it myself." He nodded to the casket. "I spent a great deal of time with her these past few weeks, trying to identify her, trying to find out how she died and how long she'd been dead, trying to prove who killed her…" _…wondering if there was some man out there wanting to know what happened to her –and his child…_

Mallard shrugged and shook his head. "You don't spend that much time studying a person and not get to understand them a bit. She seemed to me to be a very strong and determined young woman …and a very lonely one." He pulled his gaze back from the casket to the Admiral and saw the truth of his words written in the man's eyes.

"I simply thought…."

"Thought what?" --This from the auburn haired woman who had now taken the admiral's arm.

Mallard smiled apologetically. "I simply thought she could use a friend."

The woman looked at him in surprise. "That's very sweet of you, Doctor, but quite unnecessary. Of course Lieutenant Singer had friends…" she said and trailed off as she saw the look that crossed the Admiral's face.

"No," A.J. Chegwidden said slowly, a hint of sadness creeping into his voice, "She didn't." He raised his eyes to meet Mallard's. "Thank you, for that Doctor. I think she would have appreciated the thought."

Chegwidden took the flag from beneath his arm and looked at it uncertainly. "Lieutenant Singer didn't have any family. Her father died when she was in college and her mother passed away last year. She was an only child. She had no next of kin listed." He smoothed his hands across the rain dampened nylon fabric. "A fallen soldier's flag is a thing of honor, something to be treasured. We give it with the thanks of a grateful nation…but there's no one to give it to."

Mallard hesitated, he was unsure if he should offer a suggestion or not. To hell with it, he decided. Chegwidden was right. The flag should be given to someone who would appreciate it –and her.

"You know," he said carefully, "there is a program where servicemen's flags that are no longer wanted may be donated to the Boy Scouts or the Legion. They fly them over their headquarters and camp posts and the serviceman's name is added to a memorial plaque. Lieutenant Singer was found by a local scout troop here in the DC area. Gunnery Sergeant Gibbs had them in yesterday for a tour of NCIS, and the Scoutmaster asked if we knew if there was some sort of memorial for her that they might contribute to. Perhaps they might have an appreciation for it."

The Admiral's face brightened at this. "Really? You know, that's a fine idea Dr. Mallard." He glanced to Meredith for confirmation, and she nodded her approval. 

"Would you be willing to arrange it for me?"

Mallard nodded. "Yes, of course," he replied. "I believe we have the Scoutmaster's name back at the office. I would be delighted to handle it."

Chegwidden nodded once more. "Then do it Dr. Mallard," he said and solemnly placed the flag in the coroner's hands, "…with the thanks of a grateful nation."


	2. Part Two: Loose Ends

**Speak to Me in the Middle of the Night**

**By Lady Chal**

**Part Two: Loose Ends**

_03:28___

_12 May, 2003___

_Georgetown__, __Maryland___

            Mallard snapped on the bedside lamp and fumbled about the nightstand for his glasses, knocking a book on DNA fingerprinting to the floor as he did so. It was the same dream again. –The same one he'd been having since Lauren Singer's funeral. Grumbling to himself, he rose from the bed and pulled on his robe. He never should have let himself become so involved in the Singer case. –But that's what became of lonely, slightly lascivious old men who spent too much time in morgues talking to dead girls and not enough time talking to live ones.

            Raking a hand through his mussed sand colored hair, he looked sourly at the clock. There was little use in going back to bed. He'd only have to get up in another couple hours. It would take him that long to fall asleep again. Stumbling towards the bathroom, he flipped on the light and surveyed his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He looked old, he thought. --Too damned old to be letting such things get to him like this. He was a coroner for Christ's sake, a professional, the old dog who had seen it all… or seen too much.

            He splashed some water on his face and looked back into the mirror again. "What the devil has gotten into you, old man?" he muttered, but he already knew the answer. It was _her._

            He'd tried to explain it to Blackadder once, when she'd asked him why he always insisted upon talking to the dead. He knew his one-sided chatter bothered her. Whatever it was that had been _them, the soul, the spirit or what have you was gone. What remained was little more than a shell. He understood this as well as she did, and on a certain level, he agreed with her. And yet, it could not explain the feeling he often had when he worked with the dead, the sensation of a presence other than his own. –Not necessarily a spirit, but rather the echo of one that once had been. _

He knew that the others thought his habit eccentric –even unnerving—but he found that talking to the dead was comforting somehow. True, that comfort was more likely for his benefit than theirs, but still he found the need to provide them in death what many of them had so obviously been denied in life: comfort, honesty, respect –and yes, even friendship. He was still a doctor after all, –and as he had remarked once to Vivian, at least _they_ never complained about his bedside manner. So he talked to them. He clucked over their poor, damaged remains, admired the beauty they once had held, he teased them gently and told them jokes, grumbled to them about Gibbs' impatience or Abby's choice of music that inevitably blared from her lab into his and disrupted his concentration. Throughout all the degrading poking, prodding, cutting and scraping that he subjected them to, he kept up a steady stream of conversation, talking to them all the while.

            And sometimes, some of them talked back.

            He could think of no other way to account for those strange little flashes of intuition, the way he could sometimes put himself in their shoes, imagine the things they must have seen –or felt. It was not something he could consciously do. God knew he'd tried often enough when confronted with a mystery to which his analytical mind had no immediate explanation. But every once in a while, it just …happened.

            It had happened a few weeks ago when he'd awakened in the middle of the night after a particularly disorienting dream about being an ice cube floating down a river. Even as he'd stood there, alone in his apartment and miles away from the lab, he'd felt the odd sensation of that faint, silent presence and known that it was her. By the time he'd dressed and driven himself back to the office, he'd even understood what it was she'd been trying to tell him. As he stood before the sink silently regarding his own haggard reflection, he wondered what it was she was trying to tell him now.

            The door to the medicine cabinet was slightly ajar and in the slight angle of the mirror he caught a glimpse of his bedroom bureau and the folded flag that lay on top of it. He sighed as he flipped off the bathroom light and walked back into the bedroom to stand before the dresser. He honestly didn't know why he still had it. He had meant to give it to the scout master by now, had even gone so far as to look up the number the other day at work. But he hadn't made the call. Like the mystery that had surrounded the woman whose casket it had once draped, he just couldn't seem to let the bloody thing go.

            --Not that there was really anything of a mystery about her any more, he reminded himself. They knew who she was. They knew when and where and how she had died. –And thanks to Gibbs' gut instinct and Dinozzo's persistence, they even knew exactly who killed her and why. By all rights, he should have let this one rest long ago. They knew everything there was to know about Lt. Lauren Singer. –Except for two small –and ultimately unimportant—details: Why had she been going to Ireland? And who was the father of her child?

            They had assumed –incorrectly—that the father of the child had been the killer, or someone close to him. But that, as it turned out, was not the case at all. At first the finger of guilt had been pointed toward Rabb, and then his brother, but neither had proven a match for the baby's blood type. Though fingerprints, credit card receipts and eyewitness testimony had finally conclusively pinned the crime upon Commander Lindsey, his medical records had proven that he was not the baby's father either. 

There was, of course, the matter of the plane ticket. The paper had been so ruined and waterlogged that it had taken them nearly a month to determine the destination as being Shannon, Ireland rather than San Diego. It was the only piece of the puzzle that did not serve to point to the murder and likely Gibbs was right to judge it irrelevant. It probably had nothing to do with the murder. For all they knew she could have been going on vacation, but he liked Vivian's theory that it was somehow connected to the baby's father. Unfortunately, they would never know for sure. They had found their murderer. They had Lindsey's confession. There was no need to pursue the matter any further. The matter of the plane ticket and the father of Lauren Singer's child would be committed to the files as a couple of loose ends.

Mallard hated loose ends.

There was something about it –that plane ticket in particular—that spoke of unfinished business. He knew that he shouldn't let it bother him. There was always unfinished business in the case of a life cut unexpectedly short, but usually there was also someone about to conclude such matters –a parent, a spouse, a sibling, or at the least a friend. But Lauren Singer appeared to have none of these. Perhaps that was why his curiosity had been stirred, he told himself. That and the fact that that odd, compelling sense of a presence had not yet entirely abandoned him, even though she was ten days in the ground.

It was fortunate, Mallard thought, that he did not consider himself to be a particularly superstitious man, or else he'd likely be getting far less sleep than he'd managed thus far. Still, he could not deny the uneasy feeling he had that there was something Lauren Singer had desperately meant to do before she died. --Some thing of no small importance to her that would remain forever unfulfilled unless someone took it upon themselves to seek it out and finish it for her. But there was no one. …Except him.

Feeling more than a little foolish, he picked up the flag and sat down on the edge of the bed with it, smoothing the silky nylon fabric beneath his hands.

"You should be at rest, my dear," he muttered softly, "as should I. –But you're not." He stared down for a long moment at the tightly wrapped blue triangle spangled with white stars. 

"What is it you want?" He whispered.

His mind suddenly returned to the image of the dream and he forced himself to study it carefully.

_It was cold –winter time—and he was standing at the edge of a footbridge. From the other side he could see the shadowy figure of the man that awaited him and felt the nervous churning begin in his stomach. His anxiety must have disturbed the child, for it stirred restlessly, and he dropped his hand low over his abdomen to soothe it. He was oddly aware of the odd lurch his heart had taken as he made the unconscious movement. Somehow, he had not expected it to matter to him._

_He put out his small foot, taking his first step out onto the footbridge, and suddenly his fear became almost overpowering. The churning channel of the river seemed almost as wide as an ocean, and he did not know if he had the courage to cross it. He had done worse things, harder things, and this should seem so simple by comparison …but it wasn't._

_Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his heavy wool coat, his fingers encountered the slick paper of the airline ticket. He gripped it tightly, telling himself that if he could do this, he could do anything. He took another step …and then he was falling …falling into the icy waters. The muddy channel suddenly seemed as wide as an ocean, and he could not seem to get his breath. Instead, he was carried away upon the churning tide for an endless eternity until at last he felt the soft damp clay of the river bank beneath his fingertips._

_It was warmer now. Slowly, he opened his eyes. It was springtime. Grass was growing thick and lush along the edge of the water. A thick patch of wild flowers were blooming among the tall grass and insects were buzzing about them. Not far above his head, a large black and gold spider was weaving an intricate web between the heavy stalks of the tall grass. The wind caught it gently, making it billow in the breeze and tearing loose its moorings. The spider worked desperately to secure it, but the wind gusted harder, tearing it free and carrying it away on the brisk spring wind. The spider dropped silently on a gossamer thread until it disappeared into the grass. And then he was alone._

Mallard looked down again at the flag in his hands. Somehow, it was all about the ticket. That ticket was very important to her. It was a meeting that she had been afraid of, but one she had certainly meant to keep. He still didn't understand that bit about the spider. They had found her in a tree, not on the ground, and it was still too early for the insects to be out in force. Perhaps it was something more Freudian?

"Won't you come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly?" He said softly, to the empty room. She had been blackmailing Lindsey. Perhaps he was not the only one?

Suddenly disgusted with himself, he set the flag back down on the dresser and yanked open the drawers, rummaging around for clothing. The best cure for insomnia was paperwork, and there was a mountain of it waiting for him back at the office.

_0700 EST_

_NCIS Headquarters_

_Washington__, __D.C.___

Gunnery Sgt. Jethro Gibbs was pleasantly surprised by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee as he entered the dark, narrow hallway that led to the warren of offices that comprised his division of NCIS. Usually, he was the first to arrive at the start of shift and as a result, the first pot of coffee often fell to him –supervisor or not. On the other hand, he tended to regard that as a fortunate thing, since Blackadder never drank the stuff anyways and likely didn't know one end of a Mr. Coffee from the other. Dinozzo, by contrast, was known to drink it in quantity, but his Italian heritage deemed it necessary for him to concoct a foul brew that was so strong it was somewhere near the consistency of black crude oil.

As he passed his desk, he snapped up his stained Marine Corps coffee mug and carried it with him to the office break room. Pausing a moment in front of the coffee maker, he splashed a small sample into the mug and brought it to his lips to test it. It was good, --probably less than half an hour old. He filled the mug and was about to replace the carafe on the hot plate when he glanced out into the darkened outer office and reconsidered. Threading his way through the shadowed hulks of the metal desks, he stopped beside the softly glowing computer monitor and glanced down at the man who sat in front of it.

"You look like shit, Ducky," he observed as he topped off the Medical Examiner's half-empty mug. "How long have you been here?"

"Since your mother was wiping your nose and changing your diapers," Mallard said dryly, indicating that he was not in the best of moods.

Gibbs ignored it and glanced over the older man's shoulder to the computer screen where he quickly recognized the familiar format of a forensics report. He frowned. He had been gone to Naples the last few days finishing up prisoner interrogations, but Dinozzo hadn't said anything about any new homicide cases cropping up.

"Something new?" he asked.

"Something old, actually," the Medical Examiner confessed. "I was watching the Discovery Channel last night. There was a fascinating documentary on the tattoos of the Australian Aboriginals. Apparently, no two are ever the same. –In fact, the same is true of nearly all body art. It gave me an idea for a paper to present at the Forensics conference in Las Vegas later this summer. Catherine's been bothering me to attend, but with the budget what it is, you know the administration won't approve it unless I'm presenting."

"Catherine…" Gibbs searched his memory. He seemed to recall Ducky mentioning her before. "You mean the red-headed stripper?"

"Exotic performance artist, thank you very much," Ducky said dryly. "And I'll have you know she's one of the top forensic investigators from the Las Vegas Police Department Crime Scene Investigation Bureau."

Gibbs squinted at the monitor and frowned. There was something very familiar about that report. He'd written some of that, and not very long ago either. He glanced at Mallard suspiciously.

"That's the Singer case," he said, his voice taking on a grim note. "That hasn't even gone to trial yet. I'd step lightly around that one 'til it gets through the court martial. Those JAG lawyers weren't too happy with us for dabbling in it the last time."

"Last time we had the wrong man," Mallard said dismissively. "This time we don't." He reached for his coffee and took a small swallow. "Relax, Agent Gibbs. I'm merely using it as a bit of reference. The lovely lieutenant had a very remarkable tattoo as you will recall."

"I do recall," Gibbs said. "I heard about the leopardess. –From what I hear, so did everybody at Rabb's court martial on the day you testified."

"Yes, well, it was a splendid example," Ducky said unrepentantly, "--definitely worthy of mention, as far as I was concerned."

Gibbs was silent for a moment as he studied the older man. He hadn't gotten to be the top interrogator for NCIS without recognizing a load of bullshit when he heard it. If all Mallard was really interested in was tattoos, he'd be looking at the photo files, not reading Abby's forensics report.

"This one really got to you, didn't it?" he asked quietly.

Mallard stilled. He said nothing.

Gibbs sighed and set down his cup. "Damn it, Ducky, you know better than this! Hell, --You were the one who taught me! Sometimes you just have to let these things go. We know what happened. We caught Lindsey. The bastard will get 20 to life in Leavenworth. It's a sure thing. I know it's always harder when there are kids involved, but you can't do anything else for her or that baby. You just have to move on."

"That child had a father, somewhere." Mallard said softly. "I think Vivian was right about that plane ticket. She was going to Ireland to meet him and tell him."

Gibbs stared at him in disbelief. "So what? –You want to go track him down and tell him for her? Why?"

"He has a right to know what happened to her." Mallard said.

"He has a right to remain blissfully ignorant, too." Gibbs retorted. He let out a dry chuckle. "Christ! Are you really serious? What good is it going to do to find this guy and tell him now? She's dead. The kid is dead. It'll just cause him unnecessary pain. –Not to mention get you into a shit load of trouble. We've done our job. We've caught her killer and justice will be served. Anything more is an invasion of her privacy and none of our damned business! Don't be stupid, Ducky. Let it lie."

"Yes," Ducky murmured. "I suppose you're right."

"You know I am," Gibbs said quietly, watching with as Mallard closed out the files and shut down the program. He looked thoughtfully at the coroner. "Look, why don't you take a few days off? Go to Vegas? See the performance artist?"

Mallard looked thoughtful. "It does sound like a delightful idea. Maybe I will."

Gibbs nodded and turned on his heel. "I'll put the leave request through for you."

"Thank you," Mallard said.

"No problem," Gibbs returned, heading back towards his office. Mallard watched until he had closed the door behind him, then reached down and ejected the CD he had copied from the hard drive.


	3. Part Three: Speak to Me

**Speak to Me In the Middle of the Night**

**By Lady Chal**

**Part Three: Speak to Me In the Middle of the Night**

_23 May, 2003___

_University_ of __Georgetown____

_Computer Science Lab_

            The skinny blonde kid with the stringy hair and the Grateful Dead T-Shirt shoved back from his computer keyboard and looked up at Mallard. "I think I found it for ya, Doc. I checked out that airline ticket you told me about. You were right. It was an e-ticket. She bought it over the internet, which meant I was able to find a personal email account."

            "Dare I ask how you went about it?"

            The kid looked mildly uncomfortable. Mallard sighed and decided it was just better he didn't know. His nephew had a habit of poking his nose into things it was sometimes better he shouldn't.

            "Never mind, Stuart," he said dismissively. "Just tell me what you found."

            Stuart's fingers flew over the keyboard as he called up the AOL website, and logged in a username and password. After a moment a familiar chime sounded with the too cheery tone…

            "You've got mail."

            "She's got a lot of mail." Stuart said. "Most of them are junk mail. Her mail box has been filled to capacity since about the middle of January."

            "I'm surprised her account is still active," Mallard said. "She's been dead since early January. I'd have thought that AOL would have cut her off by now."

            Stuart shrugged. "She might have had it debited from her checking account. And if like you say, nobody had noticed she was dead until a couple weeks ago, even AOL wouldn't have noticed as long as they were getting paid." 

            Mallard studied the list of emails. Stuart was right. There were a lot of them. It would take hours to wade through them all, even if one started by just deleting the ones that were obviously junk.

            "Can you copy these off onto a disk?"

            His nephew grinned and held up jewel case lettered in his own crude hand writing. "Already done. I copied her favorite web pages and her address book too."

            "Thank you Stuart," Ducky said. "I'll be sure to give your mother your regards the next time I talk to her. –And I won't tell her about the little chat I had with the Dean on your behalf."

            "Thanks Uncle D," Stuart said, looking sheepish. "You really didn't have to bail me out like that."

            "Tit for tat," Ducky said smoothly, pocketing the CD. "But next time, you might want to reconsider hacking your professor's email accounts and forwarding the details of their illicit affairs with nubile young students to the rest of the entire student body."  "Uncle D?" Stuart called to him as he was turning to leave. "Can I ask why you came to me for that? –I mean, don't you have a whole bunch of computer whizzes at work who could have found out that information?"

            "Oh, we have dozens of them," Ducky agreed.

            His nephew frowned. "You're not supposed to be working on this, are you?"

            Ducky smiled. "Let's just say that this one makes us even."

            It was after midnight when he finished reading the last email and ejected the CD from his computer. Stuart had been right. It was mostly junk mail, interspersed with postings from various military and legal mailing lists. There had been the odd email from a colleague and one from Admiral Chegwidden regarding his approval of her extended leave. As a result, the boldly worded header stood out starkly when he had finally deleted enough of the junk mail to see it.

            RE: NEED TO SEE YOU.

            There was no salutation, only a tersely worded note.

_Received your message.__ Will not be able to see you while you are in DC.  Am working out of the country for an unspecified length of time. Have a small window of opportunity if you can travel. Have a four day layover in _Ireland___ the second weekend of January, but not enough time to come home. Arrive in __Limerick_ on the 10th.__

            No closing signature, either, he noted, but there could be no doubt that this was the person she had intended to meet. He glanced at the email address.  It was a generic personal account from one of the websites that handed out free email addresses and web pages like candy at Christmas. It would be impossible to track him through that. He studied the name that comprised the beginning of the email address: eldesdichado. Mallard frowned. He didn't speak Spanish but it rang a bell. He'd heard it somewhere before –a literary reference perhaps—it would come to him eventually.

            He scrolled up a few more messages until he found yet another one from eldesdichado. He clicked on it. Again, there was no greeting, but another quickly worded message, confirming her flight information for Shannon. He would meet her at the plane.

            There were only three more messages. One, a bit perturbed.

            On the 10th:

            _Met your plane.__ You weren't on it._

On the 12th:

            _Tried calling.__ Your phone has been disconnected. Lauren, where are you?_

            And the last one, on the 14th of January:

            _The window has closed. When you're serious about talking, call me. I'll be back in five months._

            He deleted all the rest of the messages, save for the five from the mysterious eldesdichado. His back ached from sitting too long in the cheap office chair he'd bought for his computer table and his eyes were starting to blur from the hours of staring into the monitor. He really must get some sleep tonight. He actually did have to go into work tomorrow. Still, he felt restless as he climbed between the cotton sheets worn smooth and soft with numerous washings. Whoever the man in Ireland had been, he hadn't been completely indifferent. He had tried to call her. He had cared enough to email her three times. Likely he still did not know what had happened to her …or what it was she wanted to discuss with him. …He had said he was going to be gone for five months. Not many people spent that much time out of the country –unless they were in the military, or perhaps worked for a large international corporation.

            Mallard punched his pillow into a more comfortable position and regarded the slightly stained plaster of his bedroom ceiling. From somewhere below came the throbbing strains of music. Probably the girl in 4B again, he thought. She was about Abby's age, and had the same deplorable taste in music. Also like Abby, she seemed to only be capable of playing it on one volume setting: loud. He sighed as he tried and failed to tune out the muted sound. It wasn't loud enough to warrant calling the police, but enough that he could clearly make out the singer's throaty words…

            _Speak to me baby, in the middle of the night…_

            The lyrics were oddly compelling and it made him think of Lauren Singer. She hadn't "spoken" to him lately. Not, in fact, since that night ten days past when he had dreamed of her. He hadn't dreamed since. In fact, he had been refreshingly alone since he had ignored Gibbs' advice and continued to follow his nose down the path of the airline ticket. He wasn't entirely certain what to make of that. There were two ways to look at it, he supposed. The more rational one being the fact that he had allowed himself to get caught up in the aftermath of a very emotional case and allowed his imagination to run away with him. Or, the raving lunatic within him argued, perhaps _she_ had been content to leave him be once she had known he would pursue the matter for her.

            --Not that he'd really had to pursue it very hard. It had really been more of a hobby as of late, like trying to solve the Sunday crossword in the Post. In the end it had only taken a couple of phone calls. The first had been to the airline, checking in to how and when the ticket was purchased. The second had been to his nephew, Stuart, a computer science major at Georgetown with a fragile academic record and a noted skill for hacking.

            He wondered, not for the first time, if maybe Gibbs was right and he should just let it drop. What was the use of it? Would it really make a difference to tell the man? –And he could tell him, Mallard knew. He had his email address, after all. It would be simple enough to do. But now that he stood on the threshold of the act, he found himself of two minds about the matter. 

            He sighed and rolled over, his eye falling on the flag still propped against the back of his dresser. From somewhere below the music began to fade.

            "Speak to me baby," he murmured, and dropped off to sleep.

            It came to him at 2:30 in the morning. The passage swam up so clearly from the dusty edges of his memory that as he sat, bolt upright in bed he almost thought he could see the words painted against the pale wall of his bedroom.

_            As far as could be judged of a man sheathed in armor, the new adventurer did not greatly exceed the middle size, and seemed to be rather slender than strongly made. His suit of armor was formed of steel, richly inlaid with gold, and the device on his shield was a young oak tree pulled up by the roots, with the Spanish word Desdichado, signifying disinherited…_

            "Of course," he muttered, "Ivanhoe. El Desdichado: The Disinherited Knight. –Great Scott!" he said dryly, "How could I have forgotten?" 

            In response, he felt a small tinge of amusement not entirely his own. He looked to the dresser. Even in the darkness he could just make out the dim spots of the stars on the flag. So… she was speaking to him again. He lay back against the pillows and looked at the ceiling.

_A man of the classics, was he?_ He thought. _And who were you my dear? His Rebecca? Or his Rowena?_

It was late when he got home that night. He'd spent most of the day performing an autopsy on two Marine Corps divers who had been the unfortunate victims of a schooling accident. Both of them had died due to a severe buildup of gasses in the blood, more commonly known as the bends. He left it to Dinozzo and Blackadder to sort out whose fault that one was. Moving to the kitchen, he made himself a sandwich and a pot of tea and carried it into the small spare bedroom that doubled as his study. He stood for a long moment over the computer, then sat down and switched it on. Signing on to the internet, he brought up the AOL webpage and then logged in with Lauren's username and the password that Stuart had provided him.

Scrolling down through the long lists of messages, he selected the one from the 10th of January. The simple words stood out boldly against the white background of his screen.

_I met your plane. You weren't on it._

He stared at the words for a moment and then clicked "reply." After another moment's hesitation, he dropped his fingers over the keyboard and typed.

_It wasn't because she didn't want to be._

He felt his thud wildly in his chest. He suddenly understood the anxiety she must have felt, standing there at the edge of that footbridge, fingering the ticket in her pocket. He drew a deep, steadying breath and then with a deliberate move of his mouse, he clicked "Send."

He meant to log out then, but before he could a bell chimed faintly and an instant message box flashed near the bottom of his screen. His mouth was suddenly dry and he reached for his tea cup and took a sip of the dark, bracing liquid before rolling his mouse over the box and clicking on it.

The word appeared in small black letters, and he could almost hear a tentative note in them.

_Lauren?_

Slowly, he brought his hands back to the keyboard and typed his reply.

_No._

_Who is this?_

He thought about it for a long moment. Who was he, really? --An overambitious Medical Examiner about to get fired? --A raving lunatic? --A foolish old man? Likely, he decided, all of the above. In the end, however, he gave the same answer he had given to Commander Turner that day by her grave.

_A friend.___

A full two minutes passed before there was a response to this. It was enough to make Ducky even more nervous than he already was and he was considering logging out when the computer chimed again.

_Where is she?_

He could almost hear the soft note of resignation in those words, though he had no idea if the voice behind it was tenor, baritone or bass. He thought about it for another long moment. It was a dreadful way to break it to the man, but his sense of her was strong and he knew she would have wanted to be straightforward about it.

_Section 31, __Lot__ 57-22, __Arlington___

            Another long silence, and then…

            _What happened?_

_            Are you in town?_ Mallard wrote back.

            _Yes._

_            Meet me there tomorrow at __2PM__ and I will tell you._

            Then, before he lost his nerve, or did something even more foolish than he had already done, he logged out and shut down the computer.


	4. Part Four: The Disinherited

**Speak to Me in the Middle of the Night**

**By Lady Chal**

**Part Four: The Disinherited**

_25 May, 2003___

_14:00 EST___

_Arlington__National__Cemetery___

            As he walked down between the rows of neat white headstones, Mallard took the opportunity to size up the lone man who stood over Lauren Singer's grave. Whoever he was, he hadn't been some military bum, for Mallard had gotten a good look at the expensive looking sports convertible parked on the other side of the road as he'd approached. He wasn't a bad dresser, either. The dark, three piece suit that hung neatly on his slender frame spoke of professional tailoring, and the soft gray trench coat that was draped over his arm was far more reputable than the one Mallard himself wore. He wasn't tall, but of average height at best and possibly an inch or two shy of Mallard's own 5'10 inches. His dark brown hair was neatly trimmed, but fine enough that errant locks waved softly in the warm spring breeze. That alone gave him pause, for the child's hair had been like that: fine and dark with just the slightest tendency to curl.

            _Yes, he thought, as much to himself as to Lauren. _He's the one, isn't he?__

            There was something else about him, though, Mallard realized as he drew a little nearer to the man. He might dress like a bureaucratic twit, but he didn't have the manner of one. Though he was far more comfortable making snap judgments of the dead, his long years with NCIS had taught him a thing or two about the estimation of the living as well. You could put four men before him in identical suits and ties, and he had little trouble in discerning the military man from the fed, the politician or the spook.

            _And this one, Mallard decided, __is definitely a spook. He might dress like a politician, and he had the bearing of a soldier, but in the end it was his expression –or rather the lack of it—that gave him away. He was standing at the foot of her grave in a pose of intense contemplation, his head slightly bent, his hands thrust into his pockets and the trench coat draped loosely over his left arm. Aside from a slight tension about his thin lips and a small furrow of his brow that caused him to squint slightly, his face betrayed no indication of his thoughts._

            He did not look up as Mallard approached him, but his voice –like his face—betrayed no emotion aside from a quiet, casual interest.

            "How did she die?"

            "She was murdered." Mallard replied. This, at least brought a look of acknowledgement as the man tore his gaze from the headstone to look Mallard squarely in the face. 

He was surprised by the intensity of the hazel eyes as the man ground out, "By whom?"

Such correct grammar …he was obviously well-educated. –Probably Ivy League, he thought. It would go with the car and the suit.

Mallard shrugged, "Final judgment has yet to be rendered, but by all appearances it would seem to be a fellow Naval officer that she was attempting to blackmail."

This, to his surprise, elicited a dry, hollow chuckle. "I always knew she had it in her," the man said. "I kept telling her that her talents were wasted in the Navy, but she was stubborn that way."

"Were you close?" Mallard asked, knowing even as he said it that it was the wrong thing to ask.

The smile faded and the spark of amusement left the golden green eyes as the man flicked his gaze back to the tombstone.

"No," he said abruptly and in such a manner as to make Mallard suspect that this man did not ever really allow himself to get close to anyone. "We weren't friends, if that's what you are asking. Lauren didn't have friends," he narrowed his gaze upon Ducky in challenge.

"So I gathered," Ducky murmured, staring down at the headstone. The flowers from the funeral had been removed long ago, and nothing adorned the grave save for a small American flag that had been placed there after the service.

"Now that we've established that," the other man said coolly, "what exactly do you have to do with all of this?"

Mallard drew in a deep breath. "I was her doctor," he said quietly, and hesitated before adding, "…after she died."

A split second of confusion crossed the younger man's face before understanding dawned. "Tell me," he said, his hazel eyes settling steadily on Mallard's face, "—all of it."

"Her body was discovered in a tree on the banks of the Potomac a little over a month ago. She couldn't be identified right away. Most of her body was well preserved. She'd been frozen in the ice, but her face had been exposed and the birds had…" Mallard trailed off as he watched the brown haired man's expression grow even stonier.

He cleared his throat and began again. "At any rate, between the insignia on her uniform and her advanced medical condition, we were soon able to determine that it was likely Lt. Singer."

"Advanced medical condition?" The other man echoed sharply.

Mallard paused again, wondering how many more bombshells he would have to drop on this man before the day was out. "She was eight months pregnant," he said quietly.

"I see."

The silence fell between them for a moment, and Mallard realized the man was waiting for him to continue. Somewhat nervous under the unwavering gaze, he forced himself to continue.

"An autopsy determined that she suffered a blow to the back of the cranium, causing severe head trauma, however, the cause of death was drowning. A forensics team found traces of her blood on a small foot bridge a few miles up the river. Judging from the height of the railing, we considered it doubtful that she fell on her own. Someone had to have thrown her over."

"Who did it?"

"At first, the evidence seemed to point to one of her colleagues, a Commander Rabb." Mallard saw the flicker of surprise in the other man's eyes. '_So you know the Commander, do you?'_

"It wasn't Rabb," the man said dismissively. "He certainly despised her, but he wouldn't have killed her. –Rabb is too much of a Boy Scout."

_'Not only do you know him, you know him well…'_ Ducky filed that tidbit away for future reference and continued. "Fortunately for Commander Rabb, one of the investigators agreed with you. They encouraged the rest of the team to do some further digging into the case and found evidence to exonerate Rabb before he was found guilty at his court martial. It turned out that he'd inadvertently made himself look guilty while trying to protect his brother. Apparently, he thought his brother might have been the father of Lt. Singer's child. He wasn't, of course. The child's blood type was neither a match for Commander Rabb nor his brother."

"Jesus," the man breathed, clearly astonished, and then flashed him an annoyed look. "Rabb and Singer? You really thought that? –He'd have killed himself, first."

"That's essentially what Commander Rabb said."

"So who _did kill her?"_

"A Commander Lindsey," Mallard replied.

This garnered another disbelieving look. "--As in Commander Theodore Lindsey? --The Aide to the Secretary of the Navy?"

"Not any more," Mallard said lightly. "In fact, not for some time. Apparently the Secretary dismissed Lindsey from his service over three months ago. –Something about an efficiency report Lindsey wrote in an attempt to torpedo Admiral Chegwidden's career. Unfortunately for Lindsey, unbeknownst to him, the Sec Nav had his own informant planted in Chegwidden's office who took a somewhat different view, and Lindsey was finished. As a result, he had more than a few axes to grind with both Chegwidden and his fair haired children at JAG. Likely that was why he chose to frame Rabb for Lt. Singer's murder."

"But why did he kill Lauren in the first place?"

"He cited her frequently in his report on Chegwidden. We believe she may have been his main source for the information he was using against the admiral. We also found indications that they met frequently last summer and that they possibly became quite intimate. We believe that she was blackmailing him, whether with the threat of telling his wife that they'd had an affair, or the revenge he was planning on Chegwidden, we don't know. What we do know was that he withdrew $5,000 in cash from his account the day before her murder, and returned it to his account the day after. –A reasonable sum for a married man trying to make an embarrassing situation go away. --Certainly enough to cover the costs of an abortion."

"So the child was his?"

Mallard sighed heavily. "The truly tragic irony is that it was not. The child's blood type was not compatible with Commander Lindsey, either." He shot the man an assessing look. "We have no idea who the child's father was. We only know who it was not."

"But you have an idea," the man said evenly.

"There is always room for speculation," Mallard agreed. "We found an airline ticket in her pocket, flying into Shannon Airport on the 10th of January. Likely we'll never know what she was intending to do there."

"Likely not," the man mused somewhat absently. He turned back to study the gravestone with renewed interest.

"I think Lauren loved the Navy," he said at last, "but she wasn't meant for it." He smiled grimly. "She was sharp, intelligent, ambitious and absolutely ruthless when it came to achieving her goals. –Too ruthless, I think, for most people's tastes."

"But not yours." Mallard observed quietly.

The younger man shook his head. "No," he agreed. "A man in my line of work has to have an appreciation for that level of ambition. I tried to talk to her once about jumping ship and coming to work for me, but she declined." He raised a knowing eyebrow. "She was also stubborn."

"You cared for her."

A harsh look flashed across the other man's features. "I admired her," he corrected. "She knew what she wanted and she went after it, no matter what. She had absolutely no illusions about whom and what she was and she always stayed true to herself, even if it made her unpopular."

"She wasn't always right," he finished softly, "But she was always strong."

"I think that must have made her very alone in the world," Ducky observed gently.

The other man shrugged. "If it did, she never let it get to her."

"It gets to all of us, sooner or later." Ducky argued. "—Even her." 

"What would you know of it?" the other man retorted sharply. "You didn't even know her!"

Mallard shot the man an assessing look. Was he wrong, or was there a crack beginning to appear in that armor of indifference? He pulled his eyes back to Singer's grave.

"Did you know that at her funeral there was no one to take her flag? They had to present it to her commanding officer. She had no next of kin. –No one in the world, except perhaps that child. I've often wondered if that wasn't why she finally decided to have it."

From within the folds of his own trench coat which he had also carried over his arm, he withdrew the folded flag he had carried beneath it. Reaching down, he propped it against the edge of her stone, the dark blue fabric standing out brightly against the white marble of her grave.

"I thought you said they gave that to Chegwidden."

"They did," Mallard replied. "The Admiral seemed to be rather at a loss for what to do with it, so I offered to take it off his hands. –Give it to someone who would have an appreciation for it."

Looking up, he caught a glimpse of some brief, intense emotion flickering in the hazel green eyes that watched him, and suddenly, he understood. He knew exactly why it was that Lauren Singer had continued to haunt him. He finally knew what it was that she wanted him to do.

He studied the other man intently for a moment. They were much alike, this man and Singer. Both were intelligent, ambitious, and doggedly determined to achieve their goals no matter what the personal cost. As a result, both of them were very much alone in the world. He wondered if they had even really liked each other. They had respected each other --if the man's earlier words were any indication—perhaps, even recognized in each other a kindred spirit. And he had little doubt that at least on one occasion, they had sought consolation in that shared understanding. But that, he realized, was not why he was here. It might have been her original intent when she had bought that ticket for Ireland, but it was not what she wanted him to do now.

Rising again to his feet, he hooked the collar of his overcoat upon his finger and slung it over his shoulder and stared down at the grave and the flag as he spoke.

"In the end, Lauren Singer belonged to no one, except herself. No one cared for her when she was alive, and no one missed her when she died. --A cautionary tale, really. There is such a thing as being too alone."

The man beside him shot him a searching look. "Why do you care?" he asked quietly.

Mallard shrugged. "Usually, I don't. But this one got to me. The forgotten ones always get to me."

Something hardened in the younger man's features, and when he spoke, his voice carried a note of grim promise. "She won't be forgotten."

Mallard nodded brusquely. "Good," he said, and turned to go.

"What was the child's blood type?"

Mallard paused, but did not look back. "Does it really matter?" he asked softly.

There was a brief silence, and then a harsh exhalation. "No," the other man ground out. "No, it doesn't."

Mallard smiled wryly. _Like hell it doesn't. "A-B Negative," he said._

The sharply drawn breath was expelled slowly in a long shudder, and Mallard closed his eyes, regretting his decision. Gibbs was right about that, he thought, perhaps he should have let it lie.

"Was…" the man swallowed convulsively, but could not get the words out. "Was it…?"

"It was a little girl," Ducky said, and then walked away.

He took a long time walking back to his car, long enough that he heard the faint roar of a well-tuned, high powered engine as he was fishing in his pocket for his keys. He turned and looked back in time to see the red Mercedes convertible disappearing around a curve in the road.

Sliding behind the wheel, he started his car and drove slowly up the hillside, stopping briefly as he neared the grave. The flag he had left against the headstone was gone. 

It left a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach and he suddenly felt old and tired and melancholy …and very much alone. Ironically, that last realization made him smile. He was alone. He was free. …And she was at peace. He smiled softly towards the headstone.

"You're welcome, my dear," he said, and drove away.

FIN

--And, yes, for those of you who might still be wondering……

(It _is_ Webb!)


End file.
